Awakening (A Dangerous Man, #1)

A
wakening

A Dangerous Man #1

Contents

Acknowledgement

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

About The Author

Teaser

––––––––

T
o all the authors at
Kboards
,
who are always available, friendly, welcoming, helpful, and willing to answer
any questions.

To my Beta readers, to whom I totally owe any success this
book achieves.

And to all the people who graciously agreed to read and
review this book. You’re all the best.

I
like to look at the framed picture of the young girl
that hangs in my room. She is smiling, and her dark blonde hair is ruffled. She
looks happy. I would do anything to get to know her, to see that smile and hear
her laugh, but I can’t. She’s dead. She died giving birth to me.

The door opens, and Aunt Josephine walks in. I don’t have
a lock, and she never knocks. It’s her house after all, and I am only twelve.
She doesn’t look cross, but I know she is, she always is. It’s never anything
I’ve done or haven’t done, although she always makes it seem as if it’s my
fault. I know now that I can never make her not cross with me. She hates me. She
hates that she has to take care of me until I’ grow up.

I am glad that I’m going to boarding school this year,
even though Aunt Josephine says that the nuns will ‘discipline my mother’s faults
away’. The nuns may be bad, but they can’t be as bad as Aunt Josephine. Nobody
can.

She comes towards me. She is tall and thin, and her skin
always looks shiny. I look away from the picture, but not quickly enough. Her
face is a tight mask of disapproval as she studies it.

“Why do I even bother?” She snaps at last. “Anybody can
see that you’re going to end up exactly like her, pregnant with God knows who’s
child.” Her black eyes flash, and I can’t stop myself from flinching. “Just
don’t think I’ll be wasting another eighteen years of my life looking after
your bastard.”

“Sophie? Are you alright?”

I look up from the spot on the wall where I’ve been staring
while my thoughts wander, and give Stacey Carver a smile. I have perfected the
smile that says I’m fine, even though most of the time, I feel far from it.

“I’m fine.” I tell her, turning my attention back to cleaning
a shelf, which is what I should have been doing in the first place. “I was just
thinking.”

“You’ve been doing that a lot.” Her voice is so full of
concern that immediately I start to feel guilty. She is my boss at the gift
shop where I work as an assistant, and she worries about me, more than she should.
I wish she wouldn’t, she has enough things to worry about without adding me to
the list. 

She has already done too much for me. When my Aunt Josephine
died very suddenly, a little more than four months ago, and I found out that I
had little money, no home, and absolutely no plans, she literally became my
guardian angel. While her husband, my aunt’s lawyer, took care of discharging
the will and settling the estate, which Aunt Josephine bequeathed almost entirely
to the local library, Stacey helped me find a small apartment in town, and gave
me a job working as an assistant in her gift shop.

“Really, I’m fine.” I smile again for good measure. She nods
and turns towards the front of the shop. She is a pretty woman, small,
brown-haired, and always nicely dressed.

I can’t see her face anymore, but I can tell that she is
frowning. She is worried because the gift shop cannot afford to keep me much
longer. Business is worse than usual, but she doesn’t know how to tell me. For
some reason, she feels responsible for me, maybe because she was friends with my
mother all those years ago, but it’s time for me to be responsible for myself.

I still have the fifteen hundred dollars my aunt left me.
Her estate was worth a lot more. Even though she hardly ever left the house,
she had been earning an income from indexing textbooks for years. In a way, I’m
glad she didn’t leave me more. If she had shown me any sympathy at the end, I would
probably spend the rest of my life wondering if I had misjudged her.

“I’ve been thinking of moving to Bellevue and finding a
job,” I tell Stacey.

 “A job? Are you sure?” She looks skeptical. “That may be
harder than it sounds, in this economy.” She thinks for a minute, and I’m sure
she is trying to come up with a better idea. “What about Art school? It’s what
you’ve always wanted, isn’t it.”

My mind goes to my portfolio of sketches, back in my
apartment. I’ve been sketching for ages, but I didn’t decide on jewelry design
until a few years ago. Of course, Aunt Josephine flat out refused to pay for
Art School, so I applied to City U, UDub, and Bellevue like wanted. The
acceptance letters are gathering dust at the top of the rusty old fridge in my
apartment. Now that I have no money, I’m not going to pursue aids and grants to
spend four years doing something that’s not my dream.

“Art School is a dream.” I smile ruefully. “Maybe at some
time in the future, I’ll go, but for now I think I’ll just try to find a job.”
That’s is if anybody will hire an eighteen-year-old Catholic school graduate
with zero experience whatsoever.

“Okay.” She is still frowning, but she doesn’t say anything
else.

I go back to dusting the shelf. It doesn’t need the cleaning,
but I need something to do. I run my dust brush over a polished woodcarving of
a forest scene, a colorful crystal vase, and a green ceramic piggy bank.

As I work, Stacey gets up and moves from the front desk to the
glass front of the store, peering down the road that leads to Ashcroft Hills
Resort, the only thing that keeps our small town on the map. It has a couple of
bungalows, a sizeable swimming pool, a spa, a few conference rooms, and it’s
just an hour’s drive from downtown Seattle. Brett Carver, Stacey’s husband,
calls it the ‘businessman’s’ paradise.

“Lots of cars going to the Hills today,” Stacey observes.
She is trying not to be too hopeful, but I’m sure she wishes that it would make
a difference in sales. She stares down the road for a few more minutes, and
then sighs. “I’m going to run a few errands,” she tells me. “You’ll be fine, won’t
you?”

 I nod in response. I love the shop. The wood carvings,
glass sculptures, etched glass, and vanity items we sell are the closest I’ve
ever been to real art. It seems fitting somehow that the last place I’ll really
know in town before I have to leave is my favorite place in it.

I sit at my desk reading a book for a long time after Stacey
leaves. Only a few people come into the shop, Doug Randall, who runs the
sporting equipment store, stops by every morning to ask how I am, while his
eyes explore my chest, as well as a few other people. There are no sales
though, but it’s too early to lose all hope.

I place the book down on the desk and move towards the door.
There is an old gilt framed mirror hanging on the wall, and as I walk through
the shop, I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I’m wearing my black blouse, a
gift from Stacey, and the blue jeans that have become my uniform. I am not pretty,
at least I don’t think I am, though Stacey would argue otherwise. I don’t look
like any actress or model I’ve ever seen, and I’m not thin enough to be
conventionally pretty anyway.

I adjust the barrettes that hold my hair back from my face.
Stacey constantly goes on about how my hair is my best feature. It is pale gold
and extremely thick, hence the barrettes, but I prefer my eyes, they are green,
the same color as my mothers’ were.

I continue to the door, and step outside. The air is fresh
and crisp, and the wind is blowing dead leaves across the paved street. On the
other side of the street, the second-hand bookstore looks sadly empty. There are
only a few people about. Many of Ashford’s residents work in Seattle, which is commuting
distance away.

I am about to go back into the shop when a car cruises past,
coming from the tree lined street that leads to Ashcroft hills. It is a black
sedan, with tinted windows, so I cannot see whoever is in it.

I turn around and enter the shop. Through the glass front, I
see the car stop suddenly, just past the store, and after a short pause, when
it stays unmoving on the street, it slides back to park right in front of me.

I watch, curious. It is probably only someone from Ashcroft
Hills, but there is a feeling of apprehension building in my stomach. It’s as
if my sixth sense can feel a danger in that car, but I ignore it. There is more
likely a sale in it, I decide.

The back door opens, and as I watch, a man steps out.

Involuntarily, I step back, suddenly hoping that the glass
will hide me from him. My heart starts to pound, and I can hear the blood
rushing in my ears. I am filled with awareness, excited and afraid at the same
time, and I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s because I’ve never seen anyone who looks like him
before.

His face is breathtakingly handsome, almost as if it was
lifted directly from one of the classical sculptures or paintings I’ve seen in
art textbooks, and then perfected. His hair is thick and very black, slightly
too long and elegantly tousled, framing his exquisite sculpted face. His lips
are firm and perfectly shaped. His nose is straight. His eyes, framed by a pair
of winged black eyebrows, are the most intense blue I’ve ever seen.

I’m only looking at him, but I feel as if all the air has
been sucked from my lungs. I pray he doesn’t come into the shop, and I hope
fervently that he does.

I am staring, mouth open, but I can’t stop myself. He is
just so... compelling.

His eyes narrow slightly, and I flush. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed.
He’s been staring at me too. I look away from his eyes and take in his tall,
broad shouldered body in a superbly tailored gray suit. My mouth suddenly feels
dry. I swallow.

As I watch, he starts to move towards the door. He is graceful
and lithe, yet strong, like a jungle cat, I think.

As soon as the obstruction of the door is out of the way,
his eyes are on me again. He doesn’t stop until he is right in front of me. I
am five six, which isn’t short by any standards, but I have to look up at him,
and when I do, I have a desperate need to lean on something.

He doesn’t say anything. At first I don’t notice because I’m
too busy staring at his face. I’ve lost the ability to breathe, which is
probably why my mouth is hanging open, trying to get enough air to at least
keep me alive.

“Good afternoon.” His voice is cultured and deep. There must
be something stuck in my throat, because I can’t seem to get any words out.
Say
something Sophie!
I tell myself desperately,
or he’ll think you’re an
idiot
.

“Good afternoon.” I finally manage, my voice, an unfamiliar
croak. His smile deepens, I’m so ridiculous I’m amusing to him, I decide
miserably.

“Would you like to buy something?” I ask timidly, knowing
that my face is probably a bright red.

He looks amused. I watch, fascinated as a black eyebrow
moves up a little higher than the other, “Of course,” he replies, a teasing
note in his voice. “I’d like ah...” He looks around and seems to take in the shop
for the first time, “a gift for my mother.”

I nod. I have to squeeze by him so I can lead him through
the shop. As I pass him, barely an inch from where he stands, I am careful not
to look at him. He smells of fresh linen, and soap, with a delicious hint of
cologne. I have an overwhelming urge to snuggle close and fill my nose with the
scent of him.

I recover myself just in time. “What do you have in mind?” I
say instead. “We have um... a selection of items you can consider.” As I move
ahead of him through the few shelves and tables where the gifts are displayed,
I can feel his eyes on my back, which makes the skin from my neck to the back
of my legs tingle with warmth. I turn towards him, and jump when I find that he
is right behind me.

I step back quickly, not because I mind being so close to
him, but because my heart is beating so loudly I’m sure he must hear it. I swallow
and continue. “We have um... These glass sculptures are all made locally,” I
start, aware that my voice sounds breathless. I wonder if he can tell that his
presence is affecting me so much. I am painfully aware that his eyes have not
left my face, even for an instant.

“What’s your name?” His voice stops me mid-ramble and I blink
in surprise.
What is my name again!

“Sophie.” I stammer, “Sophie Bennett.”

“Sophie.” He repeats, coming from him, it sounds sensual,
not the name I’m used to.

“And how long have you worked here, Sophie?” His voice is soft
and fascinating.

“I... um... a few months.” I tell him.
Why can’t I stop
stammering?

“Interesting,” He looks curious. “College?”

I shake my head, and silently I wonder how he can find any
of the boring details about my life interesting.

“How old are you?” He asks suddenly.

Why does he want to know? I frown and lick my lips
uncertainly. “Eighteen.”

His eyes follow the small movement, and for a moment, I feel
a sense of fear and excitement. He looks back up into my eyes, and something in
his intense gaze makes my insides start to quiver. The feeling is new and
delicious, and I don’t want it to stop.

He takes a small step back, there is something like regret
in his eyes. “You’re very young.” He says softly.

I don’t know what to say to that. I may be young, but he
doesn’t look much older than I am. He looks about twenty-five, or perhaps a
little older. I wonder if I should keep talking about the items we have for
sale, but I have a feeling that he is not particularly interested.

We are staring at each other again. I wonder what he is
thinking. The quivery feeling is still in my belly, and getting more insistent.
Everything about him reminds me of the things my body has been telling me for
months. The things I haven’t had the nerve, or the opportunity to explore. I
suddenly have a very intense vision of exploring those things with him, and I
blush furiously, certain that he knows what I’m thinking.

If he notices my blush, he doesn’t show it. His eyes skip
around the store and finally settle on the book I’ve been reading. It’s an old edition
of Fanny Hill, from the second hand bookstore. He looks back at me, an eyebrow
raised, and a half smile tugging at his lips. I blush again, sure that, unlike
a lot of people, he knows what the book is about.